


A Rainbow on a Cloudy Day

by TealTumbleweed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:50:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TealTumbleweed/pseuds/TealTumbleweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is having a bad day. Having Sherlock in his life helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Rainbow on a Cloudy Day

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed. My apologies for any errors in vocabulary and grammar.

At 11:17am, John Watson decided that his day couldn’t possibly get any worse. Of course, seeing as he lacked any kind of psychic ability, he didn’t know that this decision was flawed. Even so, he felt justified to yell through the open door of his office to get Sarah’s – or anyone’s, really – attention. A few seconds later, his blonde ex-girlfriend appeared with a frown on her face.

“Really, John,” she said while she rested against the doorpost, her right hand set to her hip in a disapproving fashion. “You’re upsetting the patients. What’s wrong with you today?”

John sighed and lifted the keyboard of his computer. “This. This is what wrong with me. Among many, many other things,” he said, as a dark trickle of black coffee splattered on his desk. He put his keyboard back down and flumped down in his chair, not caring that the mess of spilled coffee continued to create even bigger stains.

 “And what,” Sarah asked, “is it exactly that you want me to do about it?” She made her way into the room, crossing her arms in front of her chest. She stopped before John’s desk, looking at him with a hint of pity in her eyes.

 “I don’t know, clean it up?” her colleague answered irritably, while purposefully ignoring her stare. In the corner of his eye he saw Sarah’s eyebrows fly up, giving her face a hint of strictness; something he used to find sexy and appealing. Now, it did nothing to him, except trigger a small amount of guilt. Slowly he got up and got a wad of paper from the dispenser on the wall. He started scrubbing at his soiled sweater until he noticed that it didn’t make it any better, and threw the paper on his desk before leaning down heavily on the medical examination table.

 Sarah sighed, picked up the discarded paper, and started cleaning up the mess on John’s desk. “Still having trouble sleeping then?” she asked, trying to keep her annoyance with the man out of her voice. The paper on the examination table cracked as John shifted uneasily. After he and Sarah broke up (she dumped him, really), John always got uncomfortable with discussing his private life.

 “Sherlock keeps playing his bloody violin in the middle of the night,” he complained, “and seeing as he doesn’t have a case that means it sounds like he’s continuously strangling kittens. Next thing I know, I wake up to a loud bang because mister genius is trying to find out what homemade explosives go off in a microwave.” John absently pulls at his wet sweater, and decides it feels kind of good to whine about his morning for a bit. “Then he texts me to let me know he needs to use my laptop, which at that moment was, by the way, on the coffee table downstairs, thank you very much, and I notice it’s already past 8. Which means I was late because my lovely roommate needed the batteries from my alarm clock, which in turn hadn’t gone off. The next few things that went wrong were,” and here John started to sound more and more aggravated while ticking every item off on his fingers, “there not being any hot water in the shower, Sherlock deciding my last clean sweater could be used for putting out the small fire in the kitchen, I didn’t have time for breakfast, though if I would’ve, there probably wouldn’t have been any in the first place, I forgot my umbrella, turned up at work soaked through to the bone, have been yelled at by Mrs. Darcy, and my last patient took my favourite pen with him. And now, when I finally thought I could have the very first cup of coffee of the day, I spilled it all over myself, my keyboard, my desk, and now apparently also my carpet. So yeah, I’m very sorry to say this but I fucking hate this day.” To emphasize his point, he sharply exhaled a puff of breath through his nose. Though having a bit of a rant about his morning didn’t necessarily make him feel any better, he took some comfort in the fact that he was still able to make his ex-girlfriend listen to his outburst. At least that wiped the annoying grin of her face.

 However, John’s relief didn’t last very long. “Sorry, Sarah. You’re not the reason why I’m feeling this way, I have no right to take my anger out on you.” John silently cursed his plain incapability to behave impolite to others.

 “Talk to him, John.”

The tone of Sarah’s voice made him look up in surprise. He blinks. “Sorry?”

 “Sherlock. Talk to him. It’s clearly not working this way.”

 She sounded serious, and a tad distressed. It didn’t do anything to take away John’s confusion. “What isn’t working?” he asked her, scratching his (unshaven) chin. The smile Sarah gave him was meant to be sympathizing, but John doesn’t understand what she meant. “Just try,” she said, while she finished cleaning his desk. The soaked wad of paper went into the bin, and Sarah left John’s examination room, leaving the doctor ruffling his short hair in frustration.

 

 

\--|--

 

 

 John suppressed a yawn as he hung his jacket on the coat rack. It was mid-January and the temperatures finally started to drop well below zero, which meant he'd had to see a fair amount of people with colds today. While he didn’t have to do that much, it was always a hassle to have to deal with so many people that insisted they were genuinely ill.

 Knowing the unpredictable nature of his housemate, he carefully opened the door to their flat and stepped inside. “Sherlock? You in?” He looked around while pushing the door shut behind him. A muffled reply came from the kitchen, and John blew out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. After a tiring day at work, he had looked forward to spending a quiet night in. However, his roommate being home usually meant there was no rest to be found on the schedule. He made his way over to the kitchen, carefully avoiding meticulously stacked books and other papers.

 “Please tell me you’re not using the kettle for one of your experiments at the moment,” John says to his friend while rubbing his face tiredly. However, right after making this request he notices the sheepish look on Sherlock’s face. He sighs, pulls up a chair, and drops into it. Almost sounding afraid, his roommate softly clears his throat and puts down the battered tea pot he was holding. “Sorry?” he says reluctantly, making it sound like a question.

 “No worries, it’s not like I really, really wanted a cuppa after coming home from an insanely tiring day at work. I’ll just have a glass of cold water instead, it’s far more refreshing and without the dangers of caffeine.” John does his best to glare at his feet, not feeling like looking Sherlock in the eye.

 “The combination of your facial expression, the bitter tone of your voice, and your use of exaggeration hint at sarcasm. No need to become bothersome, John. I offered my apologies.” “Give the man a prize!” John sullenly kicked at the table leg. It didn’t really offer any consolation, but when Sherlock’s hand flew out to catch an unbalanced piece of equipment (what the hell did he need a dismantled toaster for anyway?), it gave him some satisfaction nonetheless.

 John’s frustration with his friend quickly turned to bewilderment when, after he’d frowned at their kettle for a moment, Sherlock suddenly got up and made his way to the stairs. “Stay here, John,” he instructed, “I shall return in two minutes.” John just groaned, and pillowed his head on his crossed arms on the table.

 Exactly two minutes later, John heard Sherlock coming back up the stairs. His usual swift gait was replaced by a careful pace, which made John frown to himself. However, he was downright flabbergasted when he spotted his dark-haired friend walking into the kitchen carrying two cups of steaming tea.

 

 

\--|--

 

 

 The only thing that disturbed John’s rest for some hours after the (perfect, naturally; Sherlock knew exactly what John liked) cup of tea was Sherlock’s sudden announcement that he was going out. It was nearing eight o’clock, and John didn’t really feel the need to reply to his departing friend in any way. After having lived with the man for quite some time, he could deduce that he’d just had received a text about a case after being without a serious one for a while. John decided this would keep him busy for a while, which meant that he might be able to get a bit of a quiet night in after all. He moved from their shared desk, where he was uselessly scrolling through some of his older blog entries, to his favourite chair and turned on the telly. Though he already knew there wouldn't be anything interesting on at the moment, he flipped through the channels anyway, taking some pleasure in the comforting feel of the remote control in his hands. After having watched two neighbours shouting profanities at each other for a while in a show that was meant to solve some sort of ridiculous conflict, the jingle for the 8 o'clock news entered the living room. Even though he preferred the paper in the morning, John took some pleasure in watching the news on the telly every once in a while. It added some normalcy to his life, balancing out the amount of time spent with Sherlock Holmes. Moreover, Sherlock hated the news with an unhealthy passion, and while it could be fun to have him deduce every real truth about the covered stories, it was mainly annoying as hell if one actually wanted to know something about the current state of the world.

 Tonight's news, however, did absolutely nothing to counter his sullen mood in something slightly more relaxed, as it usually did. After the general coverage on the dreadful state of the UK's politics, the anchorwoman adapted her cliched 'this-just-in' look, and sprouted something about an attempted terrorist attack in the middle of London. Instead of sitting up attentive, John slouched even further in his chair. Why did they always have to portray such situations as if it's some kind of enjoyable occurrence?

 “... intercepted by a frantic bystander. This has resulted in a dramatic decrease of casualties, and prevented any damage to the Tower Bridge. The man, who took out the terrorist by launching them both into the Thames, has yet been unfound. The involvement of Scotland Yard suggests...”

 The mention of Scotland Yard made John snap to attention, the tumblers in his brain falling into place. “No, no, no...” he mumbled, at once going for his coat, grabbing his phone and keys on the way, and stumbled down the stairs in a hurry.

 

 

\--|--

 

 

When he leapt out of the taxi, a couple streets from Tower Bridge (because _of course_ everything had to be gridlocked), he made his way over to the flashing blue lights as quickly as possible. Evading ragged-looking police officers who made an attempt to stop him, he spotted D.I. Lestrade almost immediately. Or heard his less-than-subtle shouting, at least. As soon as he reached him, Lestrade looked at him with slight shake of the head that told John exactly what he didn't want to know. 

 John's heart clenched in a way that wasn't entirely familiar to him. When did his (constant) worry for his annoying friend turn into blinded panic? “Show me,” he instructed Lestrade, who gave him a sharp nod and lead him to the North bank of the Tower Bridge. A multitude of officers was mulling about, though it seemed that any kind of bomb threat was over.

Lestrade pointed out to John where Sherlock had jumped and taken both himself and the (he'd kill him if he'd ever get his hands on him) criminal into the cold waters of the river. John ran to the bridge railing, looking out in the vain hope of spotting his frustrating (loveable) flatmate.

  _Think, John,_ he said to himself.  _Deduc_ e.  _What would Sherlock see, deduce, conclude_ . John made a mental note of the strength of the stream, the wind, tried to imagine the necessary force to shove someone over the fence, where would they have landed in the water? Suddenly, he noticed the unexpected change of current underneath the bridge (he shouldn't be leaning over the railing this far, he was tempted to jump in and be taken by the river, taken to Sherlock). He roamed his eyes over the other side of the river, the south bank, and ran. He ran, crossing the bridge, following the stream, until his legs could barely move him any further, and still he ran. He made his way down to the river, opposite of where the professional (useless) dive team was searching for bodies.

 Just when he was about to give up, John spotted an even blacker shape jutting out of the blackness of the icy water, popped up on a jutting piece of wood. “Sherlock!” he bellowed, and stumbled to the figure, which was gently swaying with the current of the stream. It was all he could see, all he could feel. He didn't notice the coldness of the water in which he now sloshed, didn't notice the pain he felt in his knees when he stumbled on a rock and felt down. When he finally reached the body (Sherlock, it had to be), he immediately switched from worried friend to army doctor, and checked for vital signs. Only when he found a weak pulse, John was able to pay more attention to the person. Dark shirt clinging to a slender chest, dark curls plastered to a bloody cut in a pale face. Sherlock. His Sherlock. He clung to his friend as if to share some of his own life-force with the injured man, and started shouting to the few (too slow!) people who had followed his crazed instincts. An ambulance started to cross the bridge. Everything would be fine. It had to be.

 

 

\--|--

 

 

What felt like years later, John woke up and found himself in an insanely uncomfortable chair in the waiting room of the hospital. His shoulder ached, but he ignored the pain and scanned the room for familiar faces. In a corner near the door he spotted Mycroft Holmes talking to a harassed-looking Lestrade, heads together and trying to be quiet. He heard Lestrade muttering the words “terrorist” and “seriously injured but in custody,” which made John feel slightly better. As if feeling John's gaze on him, Mycroft's head snapped up and noticed he was awake. All long legs and professional demeanor, he made his way over to his brother's flatmate.

 “John,” was all he said, a faintly crazed (John had to imagine it, Mycroft never looked anything but perfectly composed) look in his eyes, holding out his hand. John took his hand and shook it, understanding it to mean _thank you so much for saving the life of my brother_.

 A couple of minutes later, a nurse walked into the waiting room, addressing Mycroft. “Mr. Holmes is stable now. He should wake up in a moment,” he told him, and Mycroft gave him a curt nod. “Dr. Watson will see him now,” he said, indicating John. Taking the nurse's message as sufficient reassurance, he took his coat and umbrella from the back of a chair, and left the hospital.

 John was lead through several white corridors with blinding lights, until they reached the door of Sherlock's private room. “Please be mindful of the patient's condition,” the nurse told him, and left him to it. Glancing around, John took the medical chart from the wall and entered the room.

 Though he had prepared himself for the worst, Sherlock's visage was still a shock to John. Rationally, he knew his friend was alright (no signs of brain damage due to the lack of oxygen he must have suffered, according to the chart), but the pale face still looked terrible surrounded by his shock of black hair and a multitude of bandages. He was hooked to an IV, and a heart monitor beeped a steady rhythm.

 Slowly, John made his way over to the bed. He put the chart at the end of the bed (abrasions to the head, arms, and back, a cracked rib, a dislocated shoulder, possible concussion) and sat down in the visitor's chair. A morose feeling filled his whole being. Suddenly, the memory of Sarah's voice filled his mind.  _Talk to him_ , she had said. He had not understood earlier that day, but now he did. And he had almost missed his chance.

 Carefully, he covered Sherlock's hand with his own. He'd always known that what he and Sherlock had was special, but it had never occurred to him how much he needed the erratic genius in his life. The feelings he had for his friend weren't any he recognized, but that didn't made them any less extraordinary. Nothing about the both of them was normal, so why would their relationship be anything like the textbook affair? Even though he was still worried about the state of health of his friend, a sense of peace washed over him, transforming his distressed stare into a dopey smile.

 “What are you looking so pleased about?” Lost in thought, he hadn't even noticed that Sherlock had regained consciousness. John focused his attention on his friends open (so bright, as if he could look directly into his soul) eyes, which seemed to twinkle back at him. Sherlock's hand turned underneath his own, linking their fingers. Suddenly, John was very interested in the images the life-monitoring devices showed him, trying to ignore the undeniable blush that now graced his cheeks. Sherlock gave a soft chuckle and squeezed his hand. John realized he didn't need to talk to his friend after all. They understood each other, completed each other, loved each other.

  


 It was at that moment that John decided that this day hadn't turned out that bad after all.


End file.
